


The Wolf in Bird's Clothing

by ohmytheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmytheon/pseuds/ohmytheon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark reclaims her identity and her birthright with the help of encouragement from a Dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf in Bird's Clothing

The words whispered in the dark could hardly be real. Half the time, she thought they were a dream and the shadows would fade in the mist of the mountains. She would hear the whispers in her mind as she lay in bed in the dark of the nights. Whispers of hope, whispers of death. They could not be real, but they were. Even more so, they were whispers that only she heard. There were many moments when she would look around, sure that he was listening from a place she could not see, certain that one of his spies were somewhere she could not know about. But the whispers were only for her and so were the hands that grasped hers reassuringly and the smile the only she was given.

 _“You have to be brave,”_ were the words that whispered in her mind as she walked down the dimly lit hall. _“As brave as a wolf.”_

It had been many years since she had been a wolf, but as she made her way to her destination, her feet padding silently on the stone, she felt like one again. For so long, she had been the prey, but now it was time to be the hunter again. People thought her timid and weak, but he had seen something much different in her. She’d felt cold for so long, trapped in the Eyrie, that it had been difficult for her to even imagine what warmth would feel like. But as she closed her eyes, she could feel it now. Warmth felt like his hands holding her hands, like his body against hers when he held her, like his lips on hers when no one was looking. It reminded her of the days when she had been all summer, long forgotten in the cold and dreary winter.

 _“Will you help me, for true?”_ she had asked, no demanded.

He had looked at her, his brow furrowed, like he might not have understood her question. She had been about to repeat herself when he finally answered, _“I told you I would, my lady. Why wouldn’t I?”_

 _“Words are wind,”_ she had told him, _“even more so when they come from someone playing the game of thrones.”_

 _“I’m not playing,”_ he’d said, stepping close to her. He smelled of smoke – always smoke – as if he stood near a fire all the time. _He is fire reborn,_ she remembered thinking. _“And I would never lie to you. The throne is mine by rights and the North is yours. Just as I will take back what was taken from me, I will give you back what was taken from you.”_

Even now, the exchange between them that night burned in her memory. There were seconds when her heart skipped a beat and she thought of turning back and returning to the safety of her bedroom, but there were more seconds when everything in her burned like wildfire. She had to do this, not just for him, but for herself and for her family. The North would be hers, as it had been her family’s for centuries. He could’ve taken it from her, regardless of her birthright or perhaps because of it, but the moment they’d happened across one another in the Vale, he’d been taken by her.

It was ironic, really. Had she not learned all those lessons in court and even more lessons about discretion from her father ( _no, it is Petyr, no Littlefinger, no–_ ), then they might never have been able to court one another. All the time she was supposed to be spending with Harry the Heir, half the time she spent with the silver-haired stranger. His companions might not have approved at first, but they had warmed to her well enough in the end. They had thought her simple, like any other sweet oblivious bastard girl might be, but he had seen her for what she was.

 _“She’s a highborn lady,”_ he’d announced one night, shocking even her at his boldness.

His not-father had scoffed. _“She’s the Lord of the Vale’s bastard daughter.”_

His comment had pushed her over the edge, though she couldn’t tell anyone why. She had been called that many of times – she had introduced herself as that many of times – she had been just that for what felt like years and years – but it was the moment when someone finally recognized her for what she was that pushed her to her limit. _“No, I am Sansa Stark, heir to Winterfell, last of my family and name.”_

And once the name was out, once her true identity had been exposed, she had nearly collapsed and cried on the spot, because it felt so good to have that name on her lips and tongue. She didn’t want to lose that name ever again, and she wouldn’t, not after tonight.

She reached the end of the hall, standing in front of a large wooden door. For a moment, she paused, gazing at the ornate carvings on the door. Though the lighting was dim from the torches, she could just make out the carved Eyrie on the wood. Behind the door lied her escape. It was the most terrifying and electrifying thought that had ever crossed her mind. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked on the door to announce her arrival.

As she waited for a response or for the door to open, she thought back to the conversation she’d had the night before. It had been filled with more than whispers. It had been aired up by promises and threats, both of which frightened and worried her. The letter she’d received telling her of the meeting, almost enough to make her laugh at the irony yet again, had brought her to a spot that she had once often went to with Mya Stone. A small part of her wondered if Mya had been helping the others, yet whenever she found herself with the dark-haired girl, there was no time to ask her. They were rarely ever alone, as if Petyr did not want them to be. It wouldn’t be proper or good for her to be seen alone with the girl who was supposedly in love with the young man that she was supposed to be courting. Supposed-to-be being a key term.

 _“You must do this, Sansa,”_ he’d told her, pleaded with her.

She’d shaken her head, practically begging him. _“I can’t…I can’t…”_

_“It has to be you. The knights of the Vale will not rally behind me, not yet, but they will you. None of them want Lord Baelish as their Lord Protector, but once you reveal yourself, they will fall to their knees.”_

She had not thought she could do it then; she was not sure she could do it even now. But the idea that men and knights would rally behind her to help her reclaim Winterfell was a powerful notion indeed. She missed home more than ever. Many men said that the Vale was cold, even him, but no one knew the cold until they lived in the North. She had been born during the last winter, though it had been nowhere near as rough as this one.

 _“Together,”_ he’d promised, holding her hands in his and kissing her fingertips, _“together we will take back the North, with the knights of the Vale behind you, and after, together, we will take back my throne.”_ His hands were so warm, even when everywhere around them was so cold. She thought it strange that she never saw him wear gloves. He would strip the gloves from her hands, the cold wind biting them immediately, and warm them again in his. There was fire in his blood. _“And you will be my Queen in the North.”_

The door suddenly opened before her, and the whispers and promises were dashed away from her mind. When she looked up, there were no emotions of hope or fear betrayed on her face. She remained passive, cool, just as she’d been taught.

Petyr did not look startled to see her, even though she was an unexpected intrusion. “My little dove, what are you doing here at this hour? Come in. It’s warmer in here with the fire.”

 _It is the hour of the wolf,_ she thought as she stepped into the warm study.

He shut the door behind her and she spun around to face him. She felt caged, wishing he would’ve kept the door open, but knowing it was for the better. He always closed doors behind her, trapping her inside rooms with him, and it had made her feel edgy at first. Now she felt nothing. Petyr, for all his intricacies and ploys and games, was like all men in the end. Even he had his failings, and she was one of them. She’d known that for some time now, but had never had the strength or desire to act on it.

“I could not sleep,” she found herself saying. “I had the most awful of dreams.”

Petyr smiled and walked over to her, taking her into his arms. It was as a father should be to his daughter and yet it was not. The hug was too gentle, and she could feel his warmth breath in her hair. “What were these awful dreams?”

“I dreamed you died,” she said in a hushed voice. Each word was less audible than the one before it. She felt a surge of guilt at what she’d been doing behind his back when his grip on her tightened. Yes, this was how a father should hold his daughter. These were the moments she longed for desperately, ones that reminded her of the father she’d lost. Still, she continued, “I dreamed that you died, and I was the one that killed you.”

Carefully, Petyr held her back, his hands on her arms, so that he could get a better look at her. The look in his eyes was not nearly as pure as she had hoped. It never was. “You are far too lovely for that.”

“Am I?” she asked, almost curiously, before she plunged the sharp, golden letter opener from his desk into his gut.

When she wrenched the sharp tool away, it was covered in thick red blood, dripping at her feet onto the rich green rug. A gasp emitted from Petyr’s mouth and he stumbled back from her, his hands pressing against the wound that was blooming blood all over his equally green shirt. It looked more brown than red, but it was seeping through the cloth quickly. He grunted as he fell to his knees before her. “Sansa,” he gasped, “why?”

Sansa stepped closer to him, so that she towered before him. “Because it is the time of dragons again and I will do what I must to help Aegon VI reclaim his throne,” she told him. “Because you stole me – you stole what wasn’t yours because you couldn’t have what you wanted. Because this is the first time that I’ve chosen my own path.” She walked to the door, opening it before stopping and turning around, a smile on her face. “And because I am Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen of the North.”


End file.
